


Remembrance

by woodedmoss



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Short, im gonna upload muuuuch longer things soon, ok so basically i hate writing second person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 03:01:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19309291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodedmoss/pseuds/woodedmoss
Summary: You can't remember much.He thinks it's fun.





	Remembrance

You can’t remember much. It’s your Achilles heel, the arrow that drives through your very being. It’s gotten you in trouble multiple times- teachers calling on you for answers, friends asking you for their birthday to test your bonds- but, you can’t help it. Some people are just like that. 

Of course, he had to use that to his advantage. 

You can’t remember much, but you remember that you never wanted to be here. You know the sun was warm and welcoming, but you always cursed at its existence. You know the snow was soft, and crunchy, but you always avoided shoveling your father’s driveway because it would make your fingers prickle. 

You don’t see that, any more. 

You won’t ever see your mother, or your father, or their dumb driveway. You’ll never see your shitty old washing machine that broke every week, and you’ll never see the dryer that always shrunk your sweaters, even if they weren’t wool. You will never feel your bed sheets, you will never see the sun, you will never feel the snow. 

Going to the bar was a mistake. You had been dumped, and you figured you may as well cry into a round of potent shots, but you didn’t. 

You’re choking. 

You don’t remember much, but you know you’re choking. Your vision is blurry, and your face feels too hot. What were you choking on?

“What was the first thing I said to you?” A husky German voice breathes into your ear, and you make a strangled sound, trying to squirm away. 

A sharp pain in your shoulder makes you yelp, and then you remember- it’s your own arm, around your own neck, in a self-inflicted choke hold. Strade’s hands are above your elbow, pushing you into yourself, and the pain coming from your sternum makes tears well in your eyes. 

“I- I- don’t… I don’t know!” You rasp out, closing your eyes, your head feeling miles above your body. 

“I told you that you had lovely eyes, Schatzi.” He coos, and then drops you, to your surprise. 

You curl up into a ball on the disgusting basement floor, coughing, and inhaling desperate breaths whenever you can, trying to soothe the burn in your lungs. 

Heavy boots in front of you stomp impatiently, before a grimy hand shoots down to roughly yank your hair. When you finally open your teary eyes, he’s looking back at you, an expectant smirk drawing his face up. You don’t immediately see what he’s holding in his hand, but when his upper lip draws up, revealing slightly yellowed teeth, your eyes flick down to what he’s holding. 

He’s holding the sharp end of his hunting knife between his pointer finger and thumb, the handle towards you. 

“Wh.. what?” You ask, coughing again to try and clear the obvious rasp in your husky voice. 

“Alles klar, ihr wisst, was zu tun ist!” Strade answers, and you furrow your eyebrows, not understanding what he means

(you have a feeling, and it makes you so fucking scared. You would rather being chased in the woods, but this is your fault, all your fucking fault, you did this to yourself, and this is your punishment to take with a grain of salt).

He shoves the knife further towards you, releasing your hair when you take it. The relief from that feels so good- but then he makes an expectant nod, standing up straighter.

You stare at your thigh, eyes flitting to your bloodstained underwear. Strade grins above you, his face turning a light shade of pink, before he cocks his head. Your hands are shaking, but you take a deep breath to try and will yourself to calm. It doesn’t work, and instead, a scared sob stains your cheeks with your tears again. 

You touch the tip to your thigh, a whimper passing through you when you tediously drag it through the skin, barely splitting it. 

Strade seems unsatisfied by this, verbally urging you on, and you cry out this time, dragging the knife through your muscles, splitting strings within you. 

Blood dribbles down the curve of your thigh, elegant and red, before dripping onto your foot. It’s warm, and you feel the urge to puke. You’re not sure if it’s because of how scared you are, or if it’s because you’re in so much pain just from that. 

“You can do more, buddy,” Strade growls above you, low, and dangerous. You don’t want to see him, so you close your eyes, and dig the knife through the meat on your other thigh. 

Your mind drifts away from the pain, the promise he made you when he met you now vivid and colorful in your mind, oozing with gasoline and car oil. 

“I’ll make sure that you won’t be sad for much longer, Hasi!” 

You don’t remember much, but you know you’re a fucking idiot. You know you won’t be leaving here alive.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written in second person before, and it's hard!! Writing is hard!!! Ghthrrhgghjnvn


End file.
